Theories to Suit Facts
by 221b.homeless.network
Summary: It had been almost a year and a half after "the fall" of Sherlock Holmes. She had no business asking the poor army doctor for help in writing an article about the incident so long after the fact, but investigative journalist Elizabeth Warren knew in her heart that this was something that needed to be done. Sherlock/OC
1. Favours

**Chapter 1 - Favours**

It was well after midnight, yet the tenant of apartment 3122 of the Park Avenue suites was wide-awake. Through the windows, the city of London glittered in the backdrop, the gentle pattering of rain filtering into the flat. The apartment was modernly furnished. When entering the flat, to the right was a spacious kitchen with top of the line appliances gleaming in the dim lighting. A breakfast bar divided the kitchen and the living room, where a comfortable sitting area lay beyond. The living room housed two plush black leather couches that met at a corner table adorned with a lamp. A coffee table sat in front of the couches littered with papers with various scribbles on them. On the right wall sat an entertainment unit, though a light film of dust suggested that it was hardly used. All about the walls were various pieces of art, all of them from local artists. To the left of the entryway was a closet to hang coats and jackets. Further along, there was a hall, which split off to the guest room and the master bedroom, each with their own bathrooms. In the center of the hall lay a closet and it was here that the owner of the apartment found herself, rummaging around the contents in the dark.

Muttering to herself, the woman attempted to clean out the contents of the closet she no longer had any use for. She was quite tall – around 5'8'' with a feminine, but trim physique. Her curly blonde hair was swept up into a ponytail, though her fringe had escaped, falling into her crystalline blue eyes. She swiped at her bangs, annoyed and accidentally knocked her black thick frame glasses askew. With a huff, she straightened them yet again upon her nose and looked up at the boxes on the top shelf of the closet wearily, hands on her hips. She had been at this all day, clearing out things from the apartment that she didn't need. Being a pack rat was something she tried to avoid. With a sigh, she summoned the will to keep going. She fumbled at the boxes on the shelf, and despite her height, stood on her toes to try and reach them. With her terrible eyesight, she was merely grappling around in the dark and knocking boxes around. _'Why don't I put the light on?' _she mused. She pulled on the string to the light switch; nothing happened – bulb burnt out. _'Oh! That's why…' _Sighing yet again, the woman continued to reach for the boxes with only the light from the entry hall as guidance.

Finally, she was able to firmly grasp one of the boxes and began sliding it to the edge. She didn't see the box perched precariously on top of the one she was holding until it was too late. It fell on her head with a resounding _thump!_ and then to the floor where the contents spilled out.

"Mother of - ! Unhh, that hurt! Where the hell did that come from!?" she managed between clenched teeth, gripping her head in pain. She glanced at the papers that had fallen out of the box, and picking one up, saw that it was one of the cases that that consulting detective had solved – the late Sherlock Holmes. Frowning, yet intrigued, she took the box and its spewed contents with her to the living room.

She remembered that she had collected his cases because they had always fascinated her so. A small smile fell across her full lips as a cursory glance at the article – a blog entry to be more precise – she held reminded her of exactly why. Pulling a newspaper clipping out of the piles of papers at random, she saw it was a front page story: "The Reichenbach Hero." It was the case that officially put Sherlock Holmes on the map, so to speak. After that case, everyone wanted his help. Grinning, her eyes drank up the words on the page; she had read the article before, but it had been a while. Once she was finished, she pulled another newspaper clipping to her, and then frowned. It was the story by that wannabe journalist Kitty Riley that turned the great consulting detective into a fraud. Ms. Riley had found a source, a bloke named Rich Brook, who gave her Sherlock's life story and told her that he was an actor hired by Holmes to play a criminal mastermind for the detective to defeat. The story was a bit more complicated than that, but that was the general gist. The woman's eyes narrowed on reading Rich Brook's name, her brows puckered in thought. A memory was niggling at the back of her head and she struggled to remember what it was. After a moment of pondering, it came to her and her eyes widened in a sudden realization. It was then that a neat little idea popped into her head. Smirking, she reached for her landline that was nesting in its cradle on the coffee table and started dialing a number. It would be do-able, but she'd need help.

After the second ring, a tired male's voice answered. "Hello?"

"Arthur, hi!" the woman said pleasantly. "It's Elizabeth Warren. So sorry to disturb at this late hour, but I was wondering if you could do me a favour."

* * *

A/N: So that's the first chapter. To whoever may be reading this, I hope you enjoyed it. I realize this story is coming out right as season 3 is about to premier, so in a few hours, it will probably be non-canon to the show, but I've had this idea for a while and was suddenly struck by the inspiration to write it out.


	2. Agreements

**Chapter 2 – Agreements**

That same morning found Elizabeth Warren slowly patrolling down a street of cute modern row homes in a neighbourhood called Cavendish Place, presumably referencing the locale in Brighton. She stopped in front of #4 and glanced down at the address she had scribbled on a scrap piece of paper in her slightly sweaty hand. It was quite a warm day for May and Elizabeth found she had no need for the fitted black blazer she was wearing.

This was it – the address that Arthur had given her earlier this morning. Looking up again, Elizabeth took a deep breath to try and calm her nerves. Her insides felt like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap against her will at any moment. Everything depended on this man agreeing to help her write the story that had become a permanent fixture in her mind since glancing at those articles. Her only problem was, this man was more likely to slam the door in her face than even talk to her. She'd have to play this out very carefully.

Taking another deep breath and tucking her file of notes tightly underneath her arm, Elizabeth quickly ascended the steps and rang the doorbell. After a few moments of nothing, she soon began doubting herself. '_I didn't even bother to think he might not be at home! Is this even the right address?_' She didn't get to worry much further before the door finally opened and a woman with short blonde hair and a bright smile on her face answered. Elizabeth's heart sunk; so this was the wrong address…

"Hullo! Can I help you?" the woman asked curiously.

Momentarily forgetting how to speak intelligently, Elizabeth stammered out, "Ehhhh… y-yes. Is there a John Watson here? I was hoping that I might speak with him…"

The woman nodded, still smiling. "Yeah. Let me call him down. Wait just a sec." Elizabeth's spirits rose from the ashes like a phoenix as the woman turned around and yelled up the stairwell to the flat above. "John? There's someone at the door who wants to talk to you."

"If it's another journalist wanting to do a story, tell them to 'Piss off!'" a male voice echoed back.

Smirking, the woman retaliated, "You're going to have to find that out for yourself; I'm taking a shower." She turned back to Elizabeth, "He'll be right down. I'm Mary, by the way; if you need anything, I'll be upstairs." With a wink, she was gone. Elizabeth frowned. Did she somehow know why she was here? What a peculiar woman.

Not a moment later came the telltale sound of male footfalls down the steps and soon enough the army doctor himself was peering out the door at Elizabeth suspiciously. The man had the beginnings of a mustache forming on his upper lip. While he looked to be in considerably better spirits than the photographs that depicted him right after Sherlock's death, his eyes held a certain sadness to them. "Who are you? And what do you want?" he asked shortly.

"Doctor Watson; it truly is a pleasure to meet you," Elizabeth replied, still thoroughly flustered from her strange encounter with Mary, but hiding it well behind a mask of confidence. "My name is Elizabeth Warren; I'm an investigative journalist for _The London Herald_." A number of expressions flitted across the doctor's face, but the predominant one was anger. He made to slam the door in Elizabeth's face, but Elizabeth cried out, "Doctor Watson! Please!" She guessed she sounded desperate enough, for John paused in closing the door, and looked at her with a hard expression on his face. "Look, I know you're not the media's biggest fan right now, and I can't blame you, but before you slam that door in my face I'd really like to talk to you."

"Talk to me? What? So you can write some piss pot story about how Sh—about how my best friend was a fraud?"

"What!? No!" Elizabeth responded earnestly, eyes wide. "God no! Mr. Watson, I know this a bit late, but I want to clear Sherlock Holmes' name."

"You know you people know no – I'm sorry, what did you say?" John cut himself off from what was sure to be an insult as what Elizabeth said sunk in. "I'm sorry. You said you want to _clear_ Sherlock's name? Why would you want to do that? So you can make a name for yourself like whatshername did?"

Elizabeth had to smile at that. "Doctor Watson, I usually try and maintain at least some sense of humility, but I can assure you that I have no need to 'make a name for myself,' as you so aptly put it. I'm the lead writer in the crime department at _The_ _Herald_, but I'm not here on behalf of the paper."

"You're not?"

"No. I'm here because _I_ want to be, and because I know that _maybe_, just maybe, with your help, we can clear Sherlock's name once and for all – prove to the world that he's not the fraud that Kitty Riley made him out to be," Elizabeth looked at him pleadingly. This was the part where she laid out her proposal. If he agreed to this, then she was almost positive that she could get him to agree to help her. "I passed a café on the way here. Let me treat you to some tea or coffee…" She looked at John's weary face. "… or maybe something a little stronger." A faint smile tugged at the corners of the military man's lips. "I want to tell you a little story, and if you like it, then, maybe you'll decide to help me. If you don't, well, we can part ways and we'll likely never see each other again, and if you want, we can come back here and you can slam the door in my face." A full on chuckle – yes. "So what do you say? Can I at least interest you in a drink and some conversation?"

"Okay, but _only_ because I could use a stiff drink." There was no hesitation in his voice, and if Elizabeth didn't know any better, she'd say this was all a trick of her imagination.

"Okay?" she questioned dubiously.

John gave a brief smile. "Okay. But I'm agreeing to _nothing_ until you've at least fulfilled your end of the bargain. Agreed?"

Elizabeth smiled brightly. "Agreed."


End file.
